The Waltz
by squeakyducks
Summary: Santana asks Brittany to dinner one day, telling her that she was going to show Brittany off to her parents but Brittany never shows that night, nor any night after. Santana asks and asks, but Brittany refuses to tell her. She stops the questions and after awhile meets someone else. Now the only question left for Brittany is, "will you be my maid of honour?"


**A/N: **This came to me one day and I wrote it in my I-phone and had it ever since. I came across it one day and decided to post it before i delete it. Hehhe. Sorry

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything. You know the drill.

* * *

**The Waltz**

You picture your life as a waltz.

First, you meet someone and somehow you're drawn to them, so you bow and smile and maybe send a little wink.

Then something pulls you together and at first it's a little awkward, not knowing if you'll trip over each other's shoes in the middle, not knowing if you'll step on their toes and ruin the dance.

You start to doubt and worry and your heart does those annoying little flip flops, but the other party's just smiling down at you and you don't know why they're so calm.

It gets you mad and all of a sudden, the once dazzling someone doesn't seem that appealing anymore.

But then the hand at your waist applies a bit of pressure and you start the dance with a nod of assurance from your partner.

You start with the right foot, you're in sync and everything's beautiful again.

Sure, you trip over your shoes, step on their toes and sometimes you fall out of the arms of your partner, but that's just because you want to be part of the dance, so you try and apply a tinge of your flair here and there.

The dance continues and it continues and it continues and you get used to the flow while your partner gets used to the flair you keep trying to include in your dance.

You let it be and let yourself be guided through the whole dance, lose yourself in the arms and eyes of your partner until the music stops.

Whether or not it ends with both of you on your bum or one your feet,

The music ALWAYS stops.

* * *

Like when you were dating Mike in high school.

He was a sweet guy with chiseled abs _and_ he was a dancer as well, so that was a plus.

But over the course of your relationship you begun to realise how flawless the dance was, how he was leading it the whole time; there were no hiccups, no tripping over each other's feet and no stomping on toes.

That's when you realise that there wasn't any getting lost in his eyes the way he gets lost in yours and you didn't meld into him the way his hands always urge you to either.

No flaws and no magic.

So you broke up with him. Told him he wasn't the right one for you.

You were right. Tina was.

The waltz ended with both of you on your feet, with no grand pose of any kind and it's almost akin to ending on your bum.

* * *

For Sam, the music stopped a little sooner than it did when you were with Mike.

There was so much intensity in his eyes and you found yourself getting lost in them for almost the entirety of the dance. That was great. There was magic and it was great magic.

Then he started to trip and trip and stopped leading the dance altogether.

That's when you realised he was fixated on peeping over your shoulder at someone else, so much so that he had completely forgotten the waltz he was in.

You were getting tired from trying to keep the dance going, but all you ended up doing was twirling around. Also, you can't be in two different waltz at the same time, so you let him go to allow him the chance to begin a waltz with Mercedes.

Their waltz hasn't ended just yet.

* * *

Those were mediocre waltz that you don't find it in you to want continue for all of eternity as it should feel.

There was one waltz though, that you never wanted to end.

One.

You can't believe it took you 2 whole relationships and all of kindergarten, middle school and high school to start this dance. But then again, you didn't really know you wanted to until it started.

The dance started off on the wrong foot - Santana resisting because she didn't want to be labeled - but you flexed the hand you had at her waist and begun to lead the dance telling her to, "leave it all up to you and relax," and she did.

She looked into your eyes and allowed her body to meld into yours.

It was the most beautiful waltz you've ever been in. You were lost in her warm brown eyes the whole time, your foreheads were pressed together so hard for so long until a red patch started to show and every once in awhile, you'd get to tilt your chin up and capture soft soft lips in a full kiss.

It was magic. Great magic. The kind you'd want for it to be everlasting.

And you were so convinced that it was going to be everlasting, that you'd be able to be lost in the waltz for a long long time.

Except, it wasn't everlasting.

In fact, it wasn't even a waltz at all.

At least that's what Santana reminded you after a game of truth or dare ping pong and you slipped a "Unicorn" after she fired you a "who do you like?"

You couldn't figure out why she threw you out of her house that night. Was it because unicorn started with a "you" and she was momentarily terrified? Or was it because you didn't tell her who unicorn was even when she was giving you those narrowed suspicious eyes.

A few days later, after graduation, she apologised and said she was out of line. Then she went on to add that she liked you even though you were in love with "Unicorn whoever that shit head is," and that if you liked her too, you should show up at her house during dinner.

You were excited, rumbling through your closet and trying on a total of 15 different outfits before finally deciding to simply don a light blue dress that you remembered Santana said she liked on you.

However, you were a no show that night.

To her.

She was mad at you for a long long time, but you knew it was all for her own good, after all, she'd never abandon her family for you and you didn't want a family feud to begin in the Lopez's family.

* * *

It's years and years after that incident and that night still remains a mystery to her, a heartbreak to you and a taboo to everyone.

But it's been long forgotten by Santana. She'd stopped prodding and prying as to who "unicorn" was and she'd stop wondering why you weren't at her door step with a bouquet of flowers cradled in your arms that night.

The question she now has for you is, "would you be my maid of honour?"

There were painful trip ups and injuries in every waltz you've been in and you've been into PLENTY of waltzes but when she asked to meet you for lunch one afternoon and asked you that one question you'd never dream she'd ask you, it was like all those trip ups added together times an infinity.

But you nodded your head with the brightest smile you could manage.

And when she jumped and threw her arms around your neck, you wondered when she'd stop being able to call you on your lie.

* * *

So that's why you're in the bar you frequent with your group of friends, sitting in the booth that all of New York knows belongs to the McKinley High Glee club crew, opposite the man you don't even want in your line of sight.

Bradley. Bradley Adams.

Santana's husband to be.

Your blood's boiling and you picture tiny bolts of fire projecting from your eyes and scarring the man's FLAWLESS face.

Seriously. It's like he's photoshopped.

Trust Santana to find a man with looks to match hers huh?

You see his lips moving and it takes the waitress placing the basket of sandwiches and fries on the table for your ears to unblock and your mind to start churning.

"What?" You asked, pouring chilli and ketchup on the side of the basket.

"You're really close to Santana," he says again and you stall for a moment, because where was he getting with this?

"So...?"

"So I need you to help me with her," you're relieved when he asks that of you and even more so when you look up and catch his green eyes that are all honesty and no foul.

Santana deserves that much.

"Help? In what?"

"Like," his eyes drift off for a moment, a smile slides across his lips and his face becomes a symphony of bliss. "I want to get to know her better. What can I do for her?"

Bradley's a great guy.

"You want to know her better and you've already _proposed _to her? Your concept on the hierarchy of relationships is rather screwed up."

He looks a little shocked, hands paused a midst pouring chilli sauce onto his basket.

It was fun catching him on his errors, it made you less angry that he's not as perfect as he seems. But the way he laughs with relief when you shake your head and smile reminds you that he's perfect for Santana.

That's enough for you.

"Okay. First things first," you begun, "see this sandwich?"

He looks at your sandwich with brows pulled together in confusion.

"It's turkey breast with every vegetable except olives."

"Uh... Huh?" He nods his head slowly, unsure of where you were headed.

"It's Santana's favourite so remember it."

Bradley's eyes light up because he got it.

But that's not the lesson you want him to learn.

"It's cute that you two have the same taste."

"Nahh," you shake your head, looked at the sandwich for a brief moment before looking at him squarely in the eyes. You wanted to make sure he gets this.

"I absolutely detest pickles. And I love olives."

* * *

Next, you bring him to ikea.

After living with Santana for 11 years, you've picked up the infinite amount of pet peeves and habits she has.

"I can point out somethings you need to take note of when you move in together. But the rest, you've got to take it as it comes."

* * *

The kitchen set up.

"After cooking, which she can totally do by herself but she pretends she can't so you'd cook for her, remember to hang the pots and pans on the hooks she'll definitely have above the sink," you take a make shift pan and dangle it against the wall to show him, "she'll throw a fit if you don't. And if you've cooked something that smells, whether it's a good smell or a bad smell, remember to febreeze the place."

* * *

The living room.

"The couch," you point at the ugly brown couch ikea had displayed and you wonder where the nice blue one that was here the last time went, "firstly, don't freaking buy this one."

Bradley chuckles and smirks.

"And always buy those tiny furry pillows. As much as she shows she doesn't like them because they're too 'cutesy'? She cuddles up to them when she wants to laze around, or cry."

Bradley paused and looks a little apprehensive.

"I would neve-"

"Ah! Don't make a promise you can't keep," you say, sticking your pointer in the air, "she hates that too. And if you make that promise and she sheds even _half_ a tear, I'll cut you."

You stare him down in the eye, letting him know just how serious you're being.

"Wow," he breaths, putting his arms up in the air as a portrayal of surrender, "she sure had rubbed off on you."

You smirk, because he doesn't know how true that statement is.

* * *

You walk him through to how she likes the bedroom walls dark coloured and the ceiling a cream.

You tell him how she likes the creaking sound an old staircase makes, if not for it's vintage air then to warn her of approaching people.

"She likes to be in the know," you remind him.

You warn him about her plethora of make up products that'll undoubtedly swarm the nearest table and not to fight her about that.

"She will wage a Cold War with you. And trust me you don't want a Cold War or _any_ kind of war with her."

* * *

You're almost done with everything domestic and your heart has become a numb palpitating organ in your chest.

You past a bedroom setup and you pause.

Contemplative.

Bradley bumps into you from behind and takes a step back, rubbing his chest.

You decide. Heck it. If it makes Santana happy.

So you pull him through the threshold and sit him in the hard bed that's displayed.

He looks shocked when you push him down on the bed and straddle his hips.

"Brittany I-"

"Shush."

You take a deep breath and exhale a shaky breath.

"Santana loves to sleep on the left side of the bed, so her left hand's inside, next to the body that's warm beside her. She also likes to steal the blanket," you giggle, reminiscing.

"So you pushed me onto the bed to tell me all that?" He asks, throwing the hands flanking his sides into the air and shifts a little to hide from the audiences you're gathering.

"Nope. Now, don't ask me how I know all these, don't wonder about it yourself either. And most of all, _don't,_" you point a threatening finger at him and he clamps his mouth shut, "don't tell Santana that I remember."

His eyes soften as your voice falls from it's tone of threat.

"Why?"

"Ah! I told you not to wonder."

A threat is not valid without a reason, you know that, you know _he _knows that, but he nods his head anyways and you're thankful for that.

You shift down and your hand's trembling when you slide it under his maroon coloured V-neck.

He shudders when your cold hand touches his skin, but he doesn't ask.

It's a little harder to find the spot on his body as compared to Santana's where your hand drifts and finds purchase like it's where it belongs.

You finger bumps his first rib bone and you slide your thumb a few spaces to the right where you remember it's position vaguely.

"When you're making out, or whatever you're doing, touch her lightly here and she'll purr."

"Purr?" He asks, voice soft.

"Yes. Purr. Like a cat. But don't do it for too long, cause she'll realise she'd purring and then she'll push away."

He nods his head and waits.

"Work your way up from there," you slide your hand up and he shivers again, until you reach his collar bone, you walk your fingers a few inches above that and press at the apex of his shoulder and neck.

It's harder and rougher than Santana's.

"Here's where you suck. She get's real turned on."

"Oh?"

You take pleasure in the fact that he hasn't found her sweet spot just yet.

"It takes awhile to find it, but once you do, you won't regret it."

You're staring at him, but you don't see him. Your sight is blurring and all you see is dark hair splayed across the green sheet of the ikea bed.

"After you guys do.. What you do," you continue, still seeing nothing but a blur of brown you want so badly to be someone else, "take the role of the big spoon. Kiss the back of her neck when she starts to hum because she's half asleep but she likes to pillow talk and place a hand atop her heart, let her wake up still being the one that's being embraced."

You finally blink and the blur goes away.

Bradley's looking at you with sad yet suspicious eyes and if your psychology class served you well, he might've even been angry.

You shake your head and crack a smile.

"The rest," you allow your eyes to drift to his fly, "is up to your skills in the sack."

You hear his deep rumble of a laugh when you crawl off him.

* * *

He's thankful and treats you to dinner where he orders a turkey breast with all the vegetables except olives.

You smile and nod when he looks at you when he was at the cashier.

"Thanks Britt. If it wasn't for you I wouldn't have known to take note of so many things."

"It's fine," you smile.

"Santana was right," he begins, shaking his head.

Her name grabs your attention, as always, and you stop what you're doing altogether.

"Santana's right?"

"Yeah. She always tells me how smart you actually are and I quote," he takes in a deep breath and tries to mimics your best friend, "she's smarter than the whole world put together."

Your heart speeds up like it shouldn't.

"Really?"

"Yeah," he dips a fry in chilli sauce and smirks at you. "She sounds like a real chore to live with."

You giggle and shake your head.

"She's not. She's the best."

You contemplate telling him to embrace this opportunity because you'd throw everything away to have what he does in a heart beat, or half a heart beat, or a mouse's heart beat.

But you smile at him instead and stuff the sandwich in your mouth.

* * *

Bradley and you stay at the bar for the next few hours and conversation flows easily. You could see it in the way he paused every once in awhile in between conversations that he had something to say, but he always decides against it finally and proceeds to talk about the honeymoon he has planned for Santana and asks you to dish out suggestions for how he could make his ideas better.

His ideas were grand romantic gestures. You could tell in this one day alone, that he loved Santana.

It confuses you. The pain and relief you feel.

At 11 O' clock sharp, after the bar tender rings the bell and announces that it's free flow of beer and double food prices from then on, your friends start to stream in. Starting with Puck and Quinn, then Rachel and Kurt, followed closely by Blaine, Mercedes and Sam, Mike and Tina and finally, Santana.

You shift to sit beside Puck but not before leaning over to Bradley and whispering, "she loves fries with vanilla milkshake and hates sitting next to Puck because it triggers some unpleasant memories. But she still loves him. Don't worry"

Bradley flashes a final smile to you before standing up to welcome Santana, kissing her on the lips and wrapping his arms around her waist as if to claim her as his property. You clench your jaw and curl your fist into a ball.

Puck's gruff hands grabs your fist in his and pries your fingers apart.

And that's why you sit next to Puck.

Because he knows who your unicorn is.

Still is.

* * *

"So what have you been doing with Photoshop? Heard you've been hanging out with him for the whole day?" Puck whispers into your ear.

By now you're a little inebriated and so is everyone.

"He asked me about," Puck flexes the hand he has around your arm and shushes you because you're speaking too loudly, again.

You giggle and duck your head, letting your eyes drift to the other side of the table where Santana was watching you with suspicion filled eyes. The side of her mouth twitches and it's a tell tale sign that she's about to ask a question and you just _know_ you're going to fumble through the interrogation, so you turn back to Puck and drop your voice, "he asked me to help him with Santana. You know? The moving in together and the honeymoon."

Puck's eyes soften knowingly and he sighs through his nose.

"So you spent the whole day with him talking about Santana?"

Your smile drops and you slide further down your seat. The back of your neck hurts from stretching and your chin is pressed against your chest, so your body moves when you try to nod.

"Yeah..."

* * *

By 3 am, or 4 am you can't see the clock clearly, or anything clearly, everyone's slurring and laughing loudly like they own the place.

You don't know how, but your booth has started a real serious -or as serious as a bunch of drunk lunatics could get - round of confession. Red and yellow lights are strobing in your head right now, but you're far too gone to bother that you're answering from the tip of your tongue.

You've got puck, so it isn't really a problem. He'd pull you away when there's a need to.

Except when you turn to your left, he wasn't beside you anymore.

It's Santana turn to dish a question and he's _not_ here.

Suddenly your chest constricts and your stomach does too and you want to cry and regurgitate, but everyone's sight is set on you so you hyperventilate.

Hyperventilating is far better than puking and crying, your mind concludes.

Your mind is wrong. _So, So_ wrong.

Santana might have lost the skill to tell that your smile is fake, but your hyperventilating draws her attention and suddenly she's not smiling anymore.

You share a look and her brows twitch in a way you haven't seen in a long time.

It's not just red and yellow lights anymore, there are alarm bells ringing and imaginary fingers poking you everywhere.

You gulp and your voice is hoarse and surprisingly sober when you say, "I... I need the bathroom."

She purses the side of her lip and shakes her head warningly.

"You sit your ass down Brittany Susanna Pierce."

Her finger tip tapping the table top in finality.

"Bu-but," you're pleading by now, sparing Bradley and everyone else a look.

Your heart sinks when all your see is curiosity in their shocked eyes.

You really can't blame them, they've wanted to know why the topic was taboo for a long long time.

"I-I need Puh-Puck," you scan the bar frantically for your only way out.

The reason why you told Puck who your unicorn was befuddles you. If only you've told Quinn, or Mercedes or even Rachel, they would've stood up for your freedom at this point already.

"No you don't," Santana scoffs, rising from her seat with determination and anger in her brown eyes.

You recognise that look and at first you're shocked that she'd look at you the way she stared at the homophobic jocks and Jewfro then suddenly, you're mad too.

You're mad because you don't get why she gets to be angry when she's the one getting married; when she gets to throw all your dark history behind while it trails behind you like a dark thunder cloud.

She wasn't the only one that had to go through all the heartbreak. You did too.

You stare intently at your twiddling thumbs atop the table top, refusing to meet her eyes.

"I'm getting married soon and I want to clear things up."

"There's nothing to clear up," you mumble.

"What?" She asks through gritted teeth that tells you it's a rhetorical question.

But you answer anyways.

"There's nothing to _clear up_ Santana, I'm _still_," you push a finger onto the table the way she tapped hers earlier on and gives her a hard look, "not telling you. And I'm _never_ telling you."

"You have to," she leans towards you threateningly, swatting Bradley's hand away when he reaches out to pull her back down.

You flash Bradley a look and he flinches.

Has he not learnt anything?

_Do not_ interfere when Santana's mad.

Golden rule number #101

"I don't _have to_ tell you anything," you declare, looking back at Santana.

"You don't _have to_ tell me anything?" She's standing up at this point.

You open your mouth with a reply at the tip of your tongue but she holds a hand up and continues, voice deep and sinister in a way that sounds like she's growling.

"You don't _have to_ tell me? I waited for you Brittany. I told you I liked you," _liked_, "not caring if anyone in school heard me or not. I told my parents that you were coming for dinner and that we were not just a _thing_ anymore. Not just that. I waited for you some more after that. Thinking you'd come and explain your absence, thinking you'd come up with one of your _lame_ excuses to get me to forgive you. But you didn't. I _waited_ for you for a total of 2,191 days Britt. While you were off riding your 'Unicorn' I was in my room, crying _and _counting."

She's breathless when she says, "I think I deserve to know."

Everyone in the pub's staring at Santana with wide wide eyes and you can see Puck approaching from the side of your eyes with his mouth agape.

You weren't shocked.

Not in the least.

Because you were there every night.

Every night, you'd climb the tree outside her window and sit on the window sill with your back against the wall next to her open window.

You'd hear her muffled sniffles as she buries her face in the Cheerios jacket that you lent her and never took back, and you'd clutch your chest, cover your mouth and cry.

You'd cry and cry and cry, and sometimes your fist hits your chest in reflex, thinking physical pain would draw the emotional torture away.

And you'll return home after the sky turns pitch black; when Santana's asleep.

So, she doesn't really have the right to know anything if you didn't want to tell her.

Your blood's boiling at this point.

You're not the bad guy.

You're NOT, the bad guy.

"It's 2,921.94 days..."

You try and control the rage that's boiling at the pit of your stomach and your defence comes out in the form of a whisper.

"Speak up!" She screams and slams an open palm against the table top with a loud slap. It throws you off the edge and your legs twitch, launching you off your chair.

"It's 2,921.94 days _Santana_," you snarled her name.

Her back jerks along with everyone else's heads. You can feel your upper lip twitch as you gulp, trying to calm your nerves and anger as you look squarely into her wide flummoxed eyes.

"Britt, don't.." Puck says and tugs at your arm.

"Stop," you try and flung his hand away by rotating your shoulders but his hold was solid, so you turn to him.

"You were supposed to be here the whole time to prevent this from happening Puck. I _told_ you I just needed to get through today. Instead you went over to stuck your tongue down someone's throat. I should have told you _anything_."

You press a finger to his chest and his hold goes slack at the intensity of your gaze.

"I-" he began, looking apologetic, but Santana beats him to it. It was but a squeak, yet you heard it crisp and clear, above all the pounding in your head.

"What did you tell him?"

"Britt you shouldn't," you hear Puck and somehow a nagging voice at the back of your head say.

So you pull back when Quinn wraps an arm around your shoulders and coos into your ear to sit down, because you know you really shouldn't.

* * *

There's silence and finally some space for you to calm down before Santana speaks again. Still sounding equally angry and confused.

"Why? Why shouldn't she?"

That's one thing about Santana. She never really knew when or _how _to back down without a pale hand wrapped around her and another massaging her scalp.

"Because," you huff, tired. So, so very tired. "It isn't something you need to know okay San? You've got Bradley and that's all you need."

Santana's stance softens along with your tone and you fight a smile. She still mirrors you. She's still in sync with you.

"I just.." she shakes her head, "I just want to know. _Why_? And _who_?"

The two questions she has been asking and asking and asking and for so many years you've successfully stuck it out, but tonight, all it took was her eyes. The eyes you've fallen in love with and haven't stopped falling into since. The eyes you've woken up every night since she moved away searching so frantically for.

Those eyes. Broken and pleading.

"It's okay Brittany," Bradley reassures.

"I was there Santana," you look into her eyes and allow yourself to fall into the flaming pits of brown hues one last time before it's not yours to fall into anymore, "I was there with a bouquet of flowers just as you wanted. Red roses," you crack a knowing smile and she does too.

"What were you wearing?" She asks, head tilted to the side.

"A baby blue dress," it's almost reflex when you smirk.

You share a smile that's almost lustful and too familiar and all of a sudden you're in red and white cheer leading costumes, you're in the third booth from the front in BreadStix, your hand's tingling because Santana's hand is above it, under the napkin and it's just you and Santana.

Just the two of you.

Just as you both promised it would always be.

But the moment fades away too quickly and her smile is no longer a smirk.

"So why didn't you come in?" She breaths, eyes soft.

You hear yourself take a deep deep breath.

"Because your grandma opened the door."

You face falls as your mind rolls back the film to the night, in front of the door that's never been opened invitingly to you.

Your mind conjures a vivid image of abuela Lopez staring you down with the coldest pair of eyes you've even seen, then it switches to the way she grabbed the intricately wrapped flowers from your cradle and threw it to her feet where she stomped on it like it repeatedly and fervently like you've just offered her burnt cookies, all the way to how she stuck the end of her walking stick into your abdomen and pushed you off the porch with a snarl, "don't touch mi Santana, _demonio_."

Your life turned to mush the moment your head knocked the grass floor and the wooden door was flung shut with a silencing *bang*

You flinched when you look up to Santana, because it _still_ rings in your ears like a living nightmare.

It wasn't until you hiccuped and felt Quinn's reassuring arm wrap around your shoulders that you realised you've begun to cry.

"Shit," your eyes widened and you frantically ran the back of your hand across your cheek and eyes to wipe the tears away.

You promised yourself that you wouldn't ever cry about this anymore.

You promised.

"What about after?" She continues to prod even as her eyes are bugging with the aftermath of such a deep revelation, "why didn't you tell me? We could've worked it out toge-"

"I was there every night after. On your window sill. Even after. Even after we moved in together, I'd walk into your room after you've fallen asleep, apologise and kiss you on the forehead. I kept doing it, with the thinking that if I gave enough to you now, the Santana in high school would forgive me."

"The high school you?"

"No San. Me."

"You?"

You give her a defeated smile.

And you're relieved when it's all it takes for Santana to realise what you mean; to answer her other question.

"Unicorn?" She asks, getting up and leaving Bradley's embrace to sit beside you with her right knee pressed against the back of the red synthetic leathered couch.

It's funny she never got who unicorn was, because it was _so _obvious.

"YOU-nicorn?" Rachel supplies from behind, followed by a chorus of grunts as your friends revealed the identity of the oh-so-secret unicorn like it wasn't even one at all.

"Ohhh," she drawls as it _finally d_awns upon her.

Santana picks up your hand with a look in her eyes that reminds you of a myriad of things, amongst those were Santana in high school and... Bradley.

"Bradley," you blurt and your hand jerks to push Santana's hand away but she latches on, taking on the role High School Santana always took.

"Don't mind me," he says and you can hear the heartbreak and a tinge of anger in his voice, "all I needed was to spend one day with this girl," he points to you, "to realise that how perfect I am for Santana," and the whole table turns to look at him with accusation in their eyes, but then he chuckles and shakes his head in the way he's been for the whole of dinner, "is nothing compared to how perfect Brittany and her are for each other. She talks about Brittany _a lot _, and she always does it with this.. this, _look_," he tries to explain with evident difficulty, "This look I've never been able to understand. Until today, that is, when Brittany was telling me everything about Santana that I'd never even _dream_ of knowing and she gives me that same look. That's when it dawned on me that I'd never be able to understand it; that only two in this whole wide world could. So," he huffed and shrugged his shoulders, "I love you Santana," he says to the Latina girl, "I love you with all my heart and I'd marry you in a heartbeat if you'll allow me to, but Brittany? The girl _loves_ you, she fucking loves you in a way I don't even think is even humanely possible to. And I think I've known for a long long time, that it's more than one sided."

Bradley stands up after his speech, places the engagement ring he has taken out since a good few hours ago and places it on the table before walking straight out of the bar.

It takes awhile for everyone to drink it in, but by then, Santana's got her forehead pressed onto yours and you're drinking in the sweet sweet smell that's all Santana.

For the first time in years. You feel like the world has righted itself.

* * *

You spend that day listening to Santana purr and purr as your hand finds the spot beneath her rib bone the instant you've reached home and she presses you against the wall with a husked, "baby blue dress huh?"

You spend that day with her vividly familiar soft lips against yours and they cover your lips just as they haven't for a long long time since the times where you'd hide in her shower and be engulfed in a smell that's all Santana and amplified.

You spend that day rolling back and forth on Santana's bed with the same fight for dominance you've always played.

You spend that day peeling off each other's clothes until the buttons have clicked off and bounced to corners of the room only a scavenger hunt could find.

You spend that day trailing a wet path from her cheekbones, down to her jawbones and to that spot just above her collarbone. It's almost reflex when you press her arms harder down into the mattress with a smirk when she squirms and whines and bucks her hips.

You spend that day raking your eyes up and down the span of her body hungrily, licking your lips.

Your heart starts to bang against your rib cage when she blushes a deep red and looks to the side with a shy, "stop staring," because she _still_ does it. She did it in high school and she still does it.

Because she's the Santana you know.

Because she's still _your_ Santana.

And just like always, you shake your head and say, "I can't."

You spend that day with every inch of your body pressed up against hers, your fingers buried deep in her as you back bends while hers arches.

You spend that day realising the fact that it wasn't just you that remember everything about her, because when you were done coaxing her down her high, she flips you around and makes your mind spin with the palpable burning behind her brown eyes and her expertise with your body.

You spend the day in her embrace with her brown eyes boring into yours, glimmering when the intruding rays of sunlight hits them.

She places a hand atop your cheek and runs her thumb across your cheekbones precariously, "you know?" she whispers, afraid she might break the air if she spoke too loudly,

"you've such beautiful eyes."

Your heart lodges itself in your throat and your lower lip trembles because you can read in between the lines and you've waited for so long to do this; to hear this.

Santana realises it before you do and she tilts her chin up to capture your lower lip in between hers.

You hear her hush you and massage your scalp and you realise something else.

She led the waltz as much as you did.

"I love you."

* * *

You picture your life as a waltz.

First, you meet someone and somehow you're drawn to them, so you bow and smile and maybe send a little wink.

Then something pulls you together and at first it's a little awkward, not knowing if you'll trip over each other's shoes in the middle, not knowing if you'll step on their toes and ruin the dance.

You start to doubt and worry and your heart does those annoying little flip flops, but the other party's just smiling down at you and you don't know why they're so calm.

It gets you mad and all of a sudden, the once dazzling someone doesn't seem that appealing anymore.

But then the hand at your waist applies a bit of pressure and you start the dance with a nod of assurance from your partner.

You start with the right foot, you're in sync and everything's beautiful again.

Sure, you trip over your shoes, step on their toes and sometimes you fall out of the arms of your partner, but that's just because you want to be part of the dance so you try and apply a tinge of your flair here and there.

The dance continues and it continues and it continues and you get used to the flow while your partner gets used to the flair you keep trying to include in your dance.

You let it be and let yourself be guided through the whole dance, lose yourself in the arms and eyes of your partner until the music stops.

The music _always_ stops

and it's a sad thing.

But there something great about it stopping as well and that is knowing if the dance ends grandly.

Because if there isn't a grand ending, then there couldn't possibly be a grand beginning and if it wasn't a grand beginning, then it wasn't a grand waltz at all.

The great thing about the music ending is knowing if the waltz was grand and if it was, then you'd know without the shadow of a doubt,

that you've picked the right partner.

* * *

So that's that! (: hope you enjoyed yourself.

and have a grand waltz.

(sorry! i made a huge mistake :/ writing with a shadow of a doubt instead of without)


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